Prose, Perfected

Some days I don't know what I'm going to post here. Other days, there's something so good I wouldn't dare ignore it. Today is one of the latter kind of days. The Guardian's book page has posted a podcast, of an interview with James Salter. (The paper's been big on Salter this year: they've posted an original short story by Salter, as well as Richard Ford's love letter of an article on the man himself. It begins "It is an article of faith among readers of fiction that James Salter writes American sentences better than anybody writing today.")

I've been meaning to post something about James Salter for a while now. Not only did he write one of my favorite books (Light Years), but I'm reading There & Then, a collection of his travel writings. OK, I'll admit I've been a little envious of all the time he seems have have spent swanning around the south of France or skiing in Aspen. But he's still a great writer. To wit, this passage from There & Then:

There was a women I knew who used to ski every day, all season long, whatever the weather, whatever the conditions. She was born to it you might say--her father had been a racer on the Austrian team. Tall and sleek, she was married and had two small children; I often saw them on the slopes. Of course, she skied wonderfully, a natural. If you were too busy to ski, disinclined, or away, you knew she was there nevertheless. It was a kind of pact. One didn't know the terms, but they could be guessed at--her father had been killed while skiing, caught in an avalanche. She was being faithful to that, somehow. Other aspects of her life were in turmoil.

That's classic Salter. The mythologizing ("you knew she was there nevertheless"), the mix of intimacy and distance ("you might say... One didn't know..."), the dash-splice. Even when his topics rankle me a little, I love the style. Only Evan S Connell comes close.

James Salter. Read the man already, would you?--David E